


underground, underfoot

by windbellows



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, not really we just don't know what happened to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windbellows/pseuds/windbellows
Summary: He does not forgive, he will not forget.
Relationships: Ghirahim & Demise, Ghirahim & Ganondorf
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	underground, underfoot

**Author's Note:**

> ghirahim: i will never change i will not forgive this is a promise  
> The idea for subterranean deku scrubs & babas came from my lovely friend @kiyhonce on twitter!! was struck with the image of ghirahim wandering the ruins we see in the botw 2 trailer so i wrote this quick little thing hehehe

He walks, muttering, grumbling. He has done this for millions of years, the echoes of his anger bouncing off the old ruins and sunken walls, mingling with the drip-drip-drip of water. This place was not always underground, but he was, and he does not quite remember how he got there. It matters not. What _does_ matter is-

It is not devoid of life, down here. Rats crawl along the moss on the old walkway - there are small insects, fungi, organisms in ecosystems smaller than a hand, fish in the river. The glowing stones offer light. Vines twist and curl, and roots dangle from high above. It is a pleasant place, for what it’s worth. But watch your step, for hero-eating plants have found a home down here, and so have their caretakers, the little souls of wood and leaf. Subterranean now, the Deku Scrubs hold lanterns of the luminous rock, and cultivate their underground gardens. 

The wandering sword has been here longer than all of them, and no one really knows who he is. They can tell he’s a sword, for when the green light of the rocks catches him at the right angle he’s sharper than a Moblin’s fang, and he’s older than this place, the ancient ruins themselves, but he hasn’t aged a day. He’s looking for something, the Scrubs assume, or someone, but he either can’t find them, or he can’t get out. Or both. 

He mutters, mutters, mutters. “Ganon, Ganon…” Fingers brush against the wall, the lightest touch of metal against stone, the softest ring. “ _Where are you-_ “

There’s Malice down here too, that devouring stuff, and it flees from him. He rushes to grab it. It sinks into the corner, faster than anything, and he swears it’s mocking him. It probably is. 

“Or Demise, if you still know that name… I knew you as Demise and I know you as Ganon, I knew you first, I know you best…”

The Scrubs don’t talk to him, and he doesn’t talk to the Scrubs; in fact, he might not even know they’re there. They’re wary of him, but he’s never once tried to harm them, so they work out their lives around him, here in the massive underground place. 

“This must be a tomb,” he proclaims, “Or a cathedral. Or a house. Once. But it is _my_ -“ He takes a shuddering breath. “I cannot find you, I cannot get out, I was in the dirt and I was in the stone and I am _here_ , in the ruins. Thanks to that _accursed_ boy…”

Oh, and the years have not been kind to Ghirahim; his consciousness festered in the soil from where the pieces of him fell, and he has wandered and wandered and stumbled here and Ganon is all around him, and nowhere to be found. Ghirahim grimaces. He’s had millions of years to be humbled, but bitterness has grown in him like a vast and ancient forest, and _oh,_ is it an ancient grudge. 

He walks, muttering, muttering. His shadow falls against the paintings on the walls. There’s someone on there, someone he knows. He keeps walking. He has nowhere else to go. 

There are certainties that Ghirahim holds. If he were to find Ganon, he would recognize him instantly - Ganon is his heart, his fated, the hand that holds and the hand that forged. He knows he is Ganon now, and the name of Demise has been long lost to legend and all memory but his. He knows the blood spilled by the royal family, _her_ disgusting pawns, and it has seeped through the soil, through him. For years upon years. He would not know the goddess if he saw her now, or her vessel. And he would not know her damnable knight.

But he would know that sword anywhere, her cool presence and cooler self. 

Ganon is above him and around him and this is the closest he’s been to him in so achingly long, he _feels_ him, but Ghirahim cannot find him, and he cannot go home. 

The Scrubs mind their business. “He’s a little weird,” remarks one, “But he seems alright. A bit dramatic, yes, but he probably has his reasons.”

He does ask a Scrub once, almost as an afterthought, if they know the way out, and the Scrub responds no, they sank here with the earth and the only way for them is up, but if he follows the river he might get somewhere, and Ghirahim laughs. 

“I cannot get anywhere, small… thing,” he says. “I am bound to this ground where the shards of me fell. Thank you for the advice, however.” The sword is not unkind when he wishes to be. He speaks an ancient tongue, predating Hylian, but the trees have been around longer and they understand just fine. They speak many tongues, the creatures of the trees, and they have their own amongst them, the chatter of the Koroks and the Scrubs, the wisp-laughter of the Skull Kids, and even the Kokiri murmur still, unrecognizable now. 

“Watch out!” the Scrub calls out as Ghirahim leaves, but it’s just a bit too late, and the demon lord dodges a hungry Deku Baba, screaming. 

“Are there _even_ demons anymore,” he grumbles, brushing himself off. “Just these- things- _here_ ,” and huffing, he snatches a rat off the ground and throws it to the plant, who gobbles it up greedily. “There you go.” Brushes himself off again. Heads off once more, on his journey through the ruins, and the paintings on the wall, his sword-metal heart pounding, painfully so. 

The demon lord will decide, later, that Lord of Plants doesn’t have that bad of a ring to it, and he goes to the Scrubs and offers his presence as a wondrous gift and they decline, politely, but if he would be willing to lend a hand tending to the gardens and the baby Scrubs from time to time that would be delightful. He does. With that age-old grudge swirling inside him (he does not forgive, he will not forget) Ghirahim attacks the dirt with intent - “Careful,” the Scrubs admonish him, “Be nice.”

“I,” grits out Ghirahim, “Am _trying._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! notice the blatant micolash reference


End file.
